


Gier und Folgen

by blackazuresoul



Series: Twisted Tales Series [2]
Category: Trinity Blood
Genre: Implied Relationships, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-04
Updated: 2012-11-04
Packaged: 2017-11-17 23:52:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackazuresoul/pseuds/blackazuresoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Helga has ideas above her station, Balthasar gives in to curiosity and Isaak intercedes with terminal results.</p>
<p>A/N: Second installment of the Twisted Tales series. I’ve woven one legend and one faerietale into this offering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gier und Folgen

Balthasar strode down the corridor, a dark wood box nestled in the crook of his arm. He quietly scratched on a raised panel of the door before him then turned the brass handle and entered Helga’s office. She looked up from a small table she’d draped with a blackish-red cloth as she dredged a fingernail through a jar of spice. “Did you get it?” she asked and let the substance fall from the underside of her nail into an iron pot beneath. Balthasar wrinkled his nose, placing the box onto her table.  
  
“Saltpetre… must you use that? It does tend to linger and he’s gonna smell that a mile away!” he warned and Helga sent a dismissive wave his way.  
  
“Oh, don’t let’s be simpleminded. Once it’s desiccated, it’ll be quite inodourous,” she explained and selected two sticks of cinnamon from a cloth bag on the table and tossed them into the pot. Lavender eyes peered through painted lashes at the auburn-haired man. “Did you remember to press it for several hours? I can’t have a drop of dead blood or the deal’s off, Love,” Helga insisted and added two more things to the vessel and carefully stirred the pungent mélange.   
  
“Of course,” Balthasar replied and lifted a swaddled object from the box. The muslin bandages had oxidated to a dull russet in places and he was loath to touch it. He laid it down on the table then drew a handkerchief from the top pocket of his Orden jacket to wipe his hands. Helga poured several peppercorns into the palm of her hand and added them to the vessel.  
  
“And you didn’t say a word when procuring it, did you?” she asked and picked up a salt cellar, employing its tiny spoon to convey a measure into the brew. Balthasar sighed and took a seat near the table.   
  
“Not a peep, my Lady. I promise,” he replied, marking an X over his heart with a short grin which fell to a concerned glance. “Are you certain this will work, Eishexe? We’re taking an awful risk, you know,” Balthasar cautioned then stuffed the kerchief in his trouser pocket. Brown eyes searched the pair that rose to frown at him. “If he finds out– “  
  
“Honestly,” Helga sighed and began unwrapping the object as she admonished her colleague. “This will prevent that. Don’t be such a big-girl’s blouse!” Ribbons of stained swaddling curled to the carpet as the item was unwrapped then carefully lowered into the waiting pot.  
  
  
Isaak sat at his desk, perusing the various items populating his in-box. Staff requisitions, expense reports and the like met the surface in sorted piles. Some of the things his fellow associates wanted reimbursement for were laughable but he was in a decent mood and rather inclined to cut them some slack. After all, who was he to argue Melchior’s need for cyberskin or Kaspar’s request for seven metres of Hungarian crushed velvet curtain material.   
  
As he glanced at the next document, a soft smile crested. Dear Dietrich. For all the world he wanted to be regarded as a man, but when he expensed out a case of Swiss chocolat and Küfa kirschen lollies, Isaak could only shake his head and stamp the form _Approved_. He indulged the boy far too much for his own good.  
  
The next item raised a dark brow and Isaak sat back in his chair as he read the report, penned in Helga’s elegant hand. Two trips to the Free City of Carthage in a month and paperclipped to it was another expense report for a one-day jaunt to the Northern Marquisates. Isaak set the documents on his desk then reached for the house phone and pressed a few numbers. He leaned back and lit a cigarillo, waiting for a reply.   
  
_Hier ist von Vogelweide.._  
  
The mage smiled around his smoke then licked his lips. “Ah, hello my dear. I hope I haven’t interrupted anything,” Isaak purred into the receiver and tapped the ash from his cigarillo. “Could you spare a moment?”  
  
Several minutes later, a soft rap came to the door and Isaak bade Helga enter, grey eyes watching the woman cross the rug to sit just opposite him. She wore a barely-there smile as the magician greeted her and Helga crossed her long legs, folding her hands in her lap. “What is this about, Isaak? I _am_ rather busy this evening, so please make it quick,” she insisted. Gems on the many rings that graced Helga’s long fingers glittered in the soft light of Isaak’s desk lamp as they tensed then relaxed.   
  
Isaak laid his cigarillo in the ashtray and reclaimed her reports. One page was moved in front of the other while the silence between them prevailed. As he set the papers down on the desk, Isaak flashed her a cursory grin, the pads of his fingers lightly drumming on the parchment. “I’m rather curious as to what necessitated your various jaunts; particularly the two trips to Carthage in the span of a month.” A fingertip idly traced the corner of a page and Helga employed the armrests of her chair, a manicured nail tapping softly on the wood finial.  
  
“The first trip was to purchase lotus stamen and the second was to collect a faience bracelet I had commissioned on the first,” she told him and held up her hand to model the fine-work jewellery. A poison smile clung to her red lips as she lowered her arm and Helga arched a challenging brow at Isaak. She knew what he was going to ask next so thought to hault the question before it breached the raven’s lips. “I didn’t trust having the item delivered to me,” Helga drawled with an upward turn of her nose. “You never know _who’ll_ be handling the parcel, do you.”   
  
Isaak spared her a brief chuckle and jotted a few notes on the report. He turned the first page over on his desk, took a few puffs of his cigarillo then pressed it into the glass tray and exhaled. Helga discretely scrunched her nose and tilted her head slightly when the man’s wicked eyes lit on her once more. “And your trip to the Northern Marquisates?” he asked, his pen at the ready to write in the margin of the document.   
  
A soft sigh left Helga and she uncrossed her legs. “Isaak. What I do or don’t do with my holiday time is no concern of yours. I’m certain Mein Herr’s interests extend beyond a day at the spa,” she protested and Isaak drew the nib of his pen away from the paper. A smirk crept unbidden onto his face and a snicker was born then died in his chest.  
  
“What? Brenners Park in Baden-Baden not good enough for you anymore?” Isaak taunted good-naturedly then holstered his pen and rose from the desk. Helga watched him walk around the heavy furniture to the drinks cabinet stationed on the adjacent wall, long lashes hooding slightly at his comment, coupled with a exasperated exhale.   
  
“I truly don’t see what business it is of yours, Panzermagier, to which establishment I offer my patronage,” Helga countered while the sound of glass clinking behind her told her Isaak was busy playing host. Her eyes glided over the seams in the carved wood panelling that flanked the wall behind his desk, travelled across the large glass door case directly behind his chair and traced one of the relief squares in the dark wall. Her office had the same but she surmised it wasn’t as highly polished as the mage’s was, apparently. She’d have to have a word with Melchior’s lazy maids.   
  
A delicate glass of red wine appeared over Helga’s shoulder, carefully held at the stem by Isaak’s fingers and she accepted it with thanks, though without looking at the man. “I couldn’t care less if you patronised the peat bogs in Albion, Madam,” Isaak purred and Helga tensed as the back of his finger feathered along her left cheek. “But we must have the ledgers in order– a point to which Mein Herr is very much interested,” he told her, his finger now curling a thick strand of blue hair around it.   
  
“I’ll thank you to not touch me, Herr von Kämpfer,” Helga muttered and pushed the long strand off her shoulder, which fed the thoroughly patronising laugh that waited in Isaak’s throat. His lips parted for a toothy smile that he held onto as he resumed his seat.  
  
“I beg your pardon, my dear. I had forgotten how excitable you are,” he falsely apologised and raised the snifter to his lips. “Though I suppose I shouldn’t… I have the scars to prove it,” he needled with the barest turn at the corner of his lips then took a sip of his brandy.   
  
“Are you quite finished?!” Helga interjected and set her wineglass none too gently on his desk with a frown, that past momentary lapse of good judgment sending a haunting jolt beneath her skin. “Is there anything else with which you wish to interrogate me, or may I go?!” Isaak lowered his glass to the blotter then folded his hands in front of him, forearms resting on the surface of the desk.   
  
“How do you find _Le Grand et Le Petit Albert_?” he asked with genuine interest and Helga’s shoulders relaxed a bit as she sat back with her wine.   
  
“Intriguing yet amusing, thank you,” she replied, the pad of her finger toying with the rim of the glass. “Surely you aren’t labouring under the misapprehension the tome is beyond my scope…Meister,” Helga tacked on with a note of sarcasm then took a sip. Isaak always had the best wine and a flash of that night she’d sampled some from his lips blinked in her mind, which she quickly extinguished. The only place the man needed to be was in the ground, preferably with that insolent little whore of his. Dietrich– the only person on what was left of the planet Helga detested more than the one seated before her.   
  
She hated Isaak for what he stirred in her and for his monopolising of Cain. She loathed the fact that von Kämpfer was seated at the right-hand of God Himself and Helga could bet everything she owned that the chair at Cain’s side wasn’t the only privilege granted him. Cain barely looked at her sideways most days but with a private smile, Helga recalled her long-ago vow– when Isaak first introduced her to the enigmatic being– that she would sell her soul for a single night with the powerful Crusnik. She was smitten and she knew it and only one man stood in her way. At any rate, one man and one boy. Dietrich she hated with a special kind of contempt. At the oh-so-learned age of fourteen, the brat had nearly surpassed her own rank within the Orden; a particularly irritating thorn in her side ever since.   
  
“Not at all, Madam,” Isaak replied and reached for a thin silver case at his left. He selected a black stick and lit it, the sharp scent of clove passing between them as he exhaled. Helga watched the tip of his tongue sample the leavings of spice from his lower lip and she suddenly found the wine a little too cloying. She set the glass on his desk and tried to ignore the way the blue-grey smoke curled sensually from his parted lips when the cigarillo moved from them. The muted, double ring from Isaak’s desk phone brought Helga’s attention to the offending item and she sat back when the mage excused himself to answer it. “Guten Abend, Mein Herr,” he passed into the receiver and the witch’s brows twitched.   
  
The door to Isaak’s office opened and the voice that always sought out Helga’s spine preceded the finely-tailored uniform and tousled head of one Marionettenspieler. “Isaak. I was wondering if–,” Dietrich trailed and haulted in the threshold, propping bent arms on either side of the frame. A knowing smirk crested his lips as caramel eyes lit on the seated woman. Isaak nodded as he listened to Cain, his eyes meeting Helga’s. “One moment please, Mein Herr,” he begged then covered the mouthpiece with a hand. “Forgive me, Helga. That will be all,” he told her and she got up in a huff and smoothed down her skirt.   
  
“Whatever,” Helga rejoined as Isaak resumed the conversation and she haulted at the door, fitting the boy with an icy glare. “Pardon me,” she hissed and Dietrich cocked his head, keeping the smug smile on his face.   
  
“Guten Abend, Fräulein von Vogelweide,” the teen greeted cordially with a tip of his chin. “You’re looking particularly lovely.” Dietrich tossed her a wink and Helga growled to herself.  
  
“Move aside, _child_!” she ordered. Helga could feel the angry flush rise above the starched collar she wore to tint her cheeks when Dietrich blatantly let his gaze rove over her. He ignored her attempt to rebuke him and though he had one ear tuned to Isaak’s half of the conversation, the redhead still had time to toy with the woman.   
  
“Leaving so soon?” he asked with a quick chew of his lower lip that broke for a tiny pout. Helga crossed her arms at her waist and the movement drew Dietrich’s eyes down to her cleavage.   
  
“Dietrich Engel…It’s impolite to stare,” Isaak taught from his seat then resumed his call, leaning on the arm of the chair to puff at his cigarillo. The nib of his pen scritched along a fresh piece of parchment as Cain continued in his ear. Dietrich’s eyes raised to meet Helga’s and he shrugged with a smarmy grin.   
  
“Oops,” he murmured and Helga put a hand to his upper arm.   
  
“You are, without a doubt, the rudest thing I’ve ever clapped eyes on.” She moved to yank Dietrich away from the frame. “Isaak, do something about your recalcitrant piece of ass, will you!” Helga demanded and both of them froze when Isaak snapped his fingers to silence them. The teen showed Helga a quick look of feigned surprise then quietly tsked her.   
  
“You know, Helga, you could always _join_ us,” Dietrich lewdly suggested and his head snapped to the side with the force of the slap she delivered, clearing the way for Eishexe to shoulder past the teen and out the door, the sound of her stilettos clicking down the corridor. Isaak had caught the slap out of his peripheral and he again snapped his fingers, directing Dietrich to the chair recently vacated by Helga. The teen slid into the seat and crossed his legs while he waited for his mentor to finish.   
  
Isaak quietly replaced the receiver in its cradle and ashed his smoke then sat back and cocked a brow at the boy as Dietrich palpated his own jaw. He sighed and propped his elbow on the chair arm. “How many times have I told you _not_ to, silly boy?” the mage idly remarked and took a draw off the black stick. Dietrich smirked and dropped his hand to his crossed knee.   
  
“But she’s so much fun to play with, Isaak,” he insisted, his eyes lighting momentarily on Helga’s wineglass. The imprint of her lipstick garnished the thin rim and Dietrich picked up the glass to look at it. He smeared the corner of the stamp with the tip of a finger then brought the glass to his lips and took a sip. Isaak sharply admonished him and the teen moved the glass back onto his desk with a sheepish smile that rapidly degenerated as his mind changed tracks.  
  
“You don’t drink from someone else’s glass, Dearest. It shows poor bearing,” Isaak schooled but was cut off by Dietrich’s detour.  
  
“But you fucked her. What was it like?” he asked and brought his knee higher to prop the heel of his boot on the cushion beneath him. Dietrich laid his arm over it and leered at the magician and Isaak’s hand haulted the cigarillo millimetres from parted lips.  
  
“That’s none of your business. A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” Isaak replied and the teen scoffed.   
  
“Bullshit!” he chuckled then rested his chin on his bent knee. “C’mon, you can tell me.” Dietrich’s eyes shadowed as he gazed at Isaak and the tip of his tongue touched the roof of his mouth. “Bet you made her scream– “  
  
“That’ll do, Dietrich,” Isaak cautioned and put out his smoke, a quiet grin blooming when he looked up again to see two angry lines had materialised on the boy’s cheek. He clicked his tongue. “Clearly you touched a nerve,” he mused and Dietrich got up to look at himself in the mirror above the drinks cabinet. He touched his cheek and frowned.  
  
“That bitch!” he blurted and when he turned, Isaak was behind him, his finger lifting the teen’s chin and a dark grin hung on his lips.   
  
“He who plays with a cat must bear its scratches, Liebling,” Isaak murmured then released his hold and straightened his uniform jacket. Fingers smoothed over the hem of a cuff and the raven passed a simple turn of the lips to the younger man, heading toward the office door. “Come along, boy,” he directed and led Dietrich down the carpeted steps of Headquarters to his waiting limo. Guderian bowed his head as Isaak entered the vehicle with his pet. He shut the door then slipped into the driver’s seat and eased the car along the cobbled pavement.  
  
  
Helga sat in a room of her office, attired in a simple shift, mortar and pestle in hand. She paused in her work to uncap a cruet and added a few drops of sesame oil to the mortar. Soft scratching at the door raised her head and Balthasar walked in, quietly closing it behind him. Helga’s eyes took a cursory jaunt down his black-clad body before she bestowed a pleasant smile. “So you’re going tonight?” he asked, watching her scoop the waxy mixture from the marble vessel to work in her hands.   
  
“Everything has been prepared and I refuse to wait a second longer,” she told him and set down the ball she’d sculpted. Helga silently tipped her head toward a waiting bowl and Balthasar handed it to her. She washed her hands with the rosewater then dried them and pulled a velvet bag across the table.  
  
A small bundle of dry brown hair was extracted from the bag and Helga moistened the tips of her index finger and thumb with the mortar’s leavings then twisted the hair into a point, adding more of the mash to it. Balthasar observed her work with interest, watching the witch then form the wax ball around its newly-made wick.  
  
“I don’t know about all this hocus pocus stuff, Helga. We’re not dealing with a second-rate conjurer.” Balthasar frowned as he momentarily stopped pacing. His hands folded behind him and he arched a brow at his colleague. “I can only assume you have taken countermeasures in the event he’s magicked the entire house; which he probably has!” He resumed pacing and Helga flattened the small cylinder she’d made then set it down.  
  
“I’m not exactly second-rate myself, Basilisk! Do give me a little credit!” she demanded and again cleaned her hands. “Don’t you think I’ve considered all possibilities? I’ll thank you to not insult my intelligence,” Helga finished then tried on a soft smile as she watched the man pace. “And you can stop wearing out my floor, Love.” Balthasar paused and brought his hands to rest at his sides.   
  
“I’m sure you can understand my concern, Helga,” he remarked and held her chair as she rose. Helga drew a hand down his chest and idly tweaked a silver button.   
  
“Once I get that book, my darling Panzermagier will be dealt with– he and that slut of his,” she confidently declared then met Balthasar’s eyes. “Then Mein Herr’s agenda can progress without unnecessary interference.” The candle was secured in the velvet bag and Helga allowed a smug smile to bloom. “Leave me to do my part and you do yours, _Magister_ ,” she purred the future rank and Balthasar joined her in the smirk then lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.  
  
  
Dietrich lazily lowered himself to the mattress, his left leg drawing across Isaak’s thighs as he came to rest at the mage’s side. His own thighs burned from their recent energetic coupling but Dietrich draped an arm over his mentor’s chest and Isaak allowed it with a simple twitch of his lips. “Is your own bed in disrepair, my boy?” he murmured and slid an arm behind the redhead’s narrow shoulders. Dietrich briefly smiled into Isaak’s shoulder, even as the man swabbed an embroidered handkerchief along his own abs to expunge the remnants of the younger’s climax.  
  
“You tell me, Meister.” Dietrich toyed with a thick strand of the man’s hair then let it fall to the mattress while Isaak lazily dropped his kerchief to the floor. Grey eyes rolled over to meet devious yet tired ones as Dietrich continued. “I think we might have fucked it down last week,” he informed him and Isaak raised a brow but didn’t move to extract the boy from his embrase.   
  
“Loquacity and lying are cousins, ” Isaak cited with a brief, quiet snicker then feathered fingertips through the ends of Dietrich’s hair and watched a slit of filtered light play against the ceiling. The teen inhaled to speak but Isaak silenced him. “Sleep, childe,” he whispered and Dietrich’s long lashes tickled the magician’s shoulder as he obeyed.   
The night air was cool and puffed the thin drapery in regular intervals and the even tempo of his protégé’s breath lulled Isaak’s eyes to finally close for slumber.   
  
  
Helga lowered her _Winter Maiden_ staff and stepped over Guderian’s incapasitated body, the werewolf’s face frozen in a sneer. She slipped the short wand beneath the belt of her skirt and quietly made her way to a table in the centre of Isaak’s foyer. The dark roses in a large chrystal vase in the middle of the table exuded their subtle scent and each of the two dozen blooms stood watch over the witch’s deeds.  
  
Helga pulled an object from the black velvet bag she carried and set it on the polished surface. The desiccated, severed hand of a hanged man met the table, its fingers curling sinistrely inward toward the candle she’d fashioned. A snick sounded as the woman opened her lighter and she touched the flame to the candle’s hair wick, whispering aged words of power over the macabre pricket.   
  


“Let those who rest more deeply sleep;  
Let those awake their vigils keep.  
O, Hand o' Glory shed thy light,  
Direct us to our spoils tonight.  
Flash out thy light, O skeleton hand,  
And guide the feet of our trusty band.”

  
  
The candle sparked to life and Helga’s satisfied smile was illuminated in the eldritch flame. She left the velvet bag on the foyer table and strode with purpose up the stairs of Isaak’s mansion, in tune with the whispers the Hand bestowed upon her steps.   
  
Dietrich’s body slackened, boneless against that of his mentor, his breaths drawn in deep measures from the depths of sleep. Isaak’s brows twitched and the shadows of the room slinked across the hardwood floor from their corners to meet the shaft of light that crossed the ceiling and a score of red eyes opened in vigil.  
  
Helga slipped into Isaak’s study and looked around the darkened room. The scent of burnt wood lingered in the air, as did the warmth it had earlier imparted. On the lowtable in front of the sofa sat two empty glasses, a plate that held a few gold foil-wrapped squares and an ashtray with several black filters pressed into its curvature. Helga’s brows furrowed when she spied pieces of clothing strewn along the back of the furniture and she paused to lift one from the sofa. The shirt was of a smaller size and a scowl tore her red lips. Helga threw the garment to the floor then took a deep breath to centre herself. “Very soon, little strumpet,” Helga promised the offending article and walked over to Isaak’s desk to flip on the antique lamp stationed at the corner.   
  
The whispers from her hagborn object in the foyer directed Helga to an unassuming door at the left of the desk. Her hand touched the ornate knob and inside the bedroom down the upstairs corridor, Isaak’s eyes snapped open then hooded with the grin that woke on his lips. Red eyes dotted the ceiling and the mage’s hand idly petted through Dietrich’s hair. The boy didn’t move a muscle and Isaak stretched out with his conscious to find Guderian laying on the marble floor of the foyer, his features fixed in an angry scowl.  
  
Isaak licked his lips as the object on the table came into fuzzy view and they peeled further for a sharp smile. He could detect the stamp of his former student on the magic that surrounded the hand and Isaak lifted his eyes to the ceiling once more, speaking to his minions. “Be calm, my friends,” he murmured, though let a shade slip beneath the door to marry with the shadows of the corridor. As his spy travelled to the study, Isaak turned his head to press a kiss to Dietrich’s cool forehead and closed his eyes to remotely view that which his wraith witnessed.  
  
Within the small room, Helga’s eyes flashed as she ogled the few books that were housed in a recessed shelf. She knew Isaak had more than what was displayed, but there was one book she’d had her mind set on and when she found it, a private smile raised. “Ah, there you are,” Helga whispered.  
  
Her breathing shallowed in anticipation and when she ran a finger over the worn spine, a subvocal purr vibrated her lips. She slid the tome from its place and held it reverently in one hand, sending the other to glide across the book’s cover. The binding was of a strange texture– not quite leather and definitely not pigskin. A delicately arched brow lifted as Helga pondered the very real possibility that the grimoire was bound in human skin.   
  
The idea thrilled her and she read the gilded title: _Lemegeton_. Helga looked over her shoulder, half expecting to see Isaak’s devilish countenance leering at her from behind his fall of ebony hair. Only the shadows of the room attested to her joy and she quickly turned out the light of the magician’s study, closing the door behind her.   
  
As Helga’s heels softly clicked along a section of floor before hitting the carpeted stairs, Issak loosed a breathy laugh and recalled his shade. “Delay in vengeance gives a heavier blow,” he quoted. “Do enjoy your laurels, Madam…short-lived as they shall be.” Several minutes later, Dietrich stirred at Isaak’s side, rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand then looked up at his mentor.  
  
“What time is it?” he sleepily asked and squinted to see the antique clock on the bedtable. Issak shushed him, his gaze still trained on the ceiling, his hand petting through Dietrich’s hair.   
  
“Go back to sleep, Dietrich,” he softly commanded but the teen sat up on an elbow.  
  
“I feel like I’ve been sleeping for days,” he protested and Isaak’s gaze languidly shifted to him. He moved his arm out from under his protégé and drew the back of a finger along Dietrich’s bare chest.   
  
“Must have been the wine, Liebling,” Issak falsely reasoned and clicked his tongue. “You’re quite the lightweight.” Dietrich frowned at both the comment and the distant look that hovered in Isaak’s eyes, but let it drop with a brief grin.   
  
“Yeah,” he sighed then laid down again, drawing the sheet to cover them both.   
  
  
Helga sat in her chair at the conference table. Beneath the surface, her crossed leg bobbed impatiently as Radu droned on about his pretty Tovarăş. The Methuselah noble petitioned for an alternative plan, wishing to avoid the nightmare of having Ion Fortuna’s blood on his hands. Cain waved an indifferent hand toward him and Dietrich explained with an inappropriately sharp and cavalier simper that there was simply no alternative.  
  
Isaak’s glance shifted from the uncomfortable Baron of Luxor to the woman that sat opposite him. He reached for a carafe of wine and filled a clean glass with the blush liquid and Helga met his gaze as he forwarded the glass toward her. “Are we keeping you from something, my dear?” he purred and retracted his hand. Helga stilled her leg and drew the wineglass in front of her.  
  
“Not at all,” she replied and sat back with her beverage. The glass was returned to the tabletop when Cain decided he’d had enough of the meeting and abruptly rose from his chair, dismissing everyone. Helga exhaled, watching Crusnik’s fluid movements, but before he put his back to the small assembly, cool blue eyes caught her own and a cryptic smile passed between them. Helga bowed her chin in respect, though when she’d raised her head again he was gone. She then took the opportunity to avoid any messy entanglements Isaak’s toy seemed all too thrilled to turn into a neverending tale of woe for one Flamberg.  
  
It was the fool’s own fault, in her opinion.  
  
Helga banished those musings and headed to her office, ordering the automated attendant that served as her assistant to cancel all of her appointments for the day and that she wasn’t to be disturbed– unless Mein Herr Himself called. The doll nodded and went about her tasks, leaving Helga to ensconse herself in the office, the sound of the lock punctuating her sentence. Once inside, Helga took off her jacket and tie, then unfastened the first two buttons of her blouse. She rolled up the sleeves and walked into her workroom. On a velvet-covered table, the procured book sat, flanked by candles that she lit one by one. She took in a silent breath and opened the tome, the sound of aged skin creaking at the spine as the cover yielded the pages within.   
  
The text was in Latin and Helga ran a finger down the title page then thumbed the corners of the pages. The woman softly gasped and ran her nails over the worn parchment. “It _does_ exist,” Helga whispered and began to read the secrets contained therein. Her wide, lavender eyes hungrily devoured the text and as she read, Helga washed her hands in the bowl of rosewater at the corner of the table. Drying them with a new linen, she pulled a square of chalk out of a parchment wrapper that had been inscribed with seals of magic then knealt on the hardwood floor to trace out the work circle that had been imparted to her.   
  
Each character expertly writ, Helga added the words of protection in the outer umbra of the large circle and laid the chalk on her altar. On a fresh piece of parchment with india ink, she copied the summoning sigil that she’d fashioned on a coin of silver and affixed it to her chest, according to the open page. Stepping into the chalk circle, Helga raised her arms and began the conjuration, her heart racing with not only the forbidden knowledge she’d stolen, but with the anticipation that each word brought her closer to being rid of the magnetic but dangerous Panzermagier– his demise delivered by none other than one he commanded. The irony, to Helga, was most delicious.   
  
“I Invocate and conjure you, spirit Belial, and being with power armed from your Supreme Majesty, I thoroughly command you by Beralanensis, Baldachiensis, Paumachiæ and Apologiæ-Sedes and the most powerful princes Genio Liachidi ministers of your Tartarean seat, Chief princes of the seat of Apologia, in the Ninth Region. I exorcise and powerfully command you spirit Belial, in and by him that said the word and it was done,” she cited.   
  
The candles on her altar guttered with the shift of energy that occurred outside the circle and fine hairs on the back of Helga’s neck stood on end as the air temperature markedly dropped. She continued the invocation, the breath of her words puffing in grey fog from her lips, though no entity appeared. Her eyes fell to the next few lines of Latin and she again called using the second invocation.  
  
  
Isaak attended Cain’s bath and held open a large towel for him to step into. He wrapped it around Crusnik’s body and escorted him to his chaise. Cain sat and let the towel slide open as Isaak took a pale foot in hand, drawing a pleased purr from the blonde when the massage began. “What think you of this evening’s discourse, Isaak?” Cain asked and drew his left hand along the seat’s arm, his blunt nails softly bringing up the pile of the upholstery. The mage offered a light smile and gently pushed the pad of his thumb along the instep.   
  
“Mildly entertaining, Mein Herr; though I found our lady’s distraction even more so,” he replied and Cain opened one set of long lashes to regard him.  
  
“Ah yes. Always out to lunch, is she not,” he remarked and crooked a finger at Isaak. The magician understood the silent demand and paused in his work to select a cigarillo from his case. He lit the stick, pocketed the accessories and puffed the end alight, taking a deep draw himself before handing it off to his superiour. Cain granted the raven a soft smile and leisurely smoked as Isaak resumed his massage, deft fingers moving up to knead Crusnik’s calf muscle.  
  
“She’s quite the busy bee as of late, Highness.” Issak licked his lower lip, both hands now working Cain’s left calf. “I fear it may spell her downfall,” he tacked on with a feigned look of concern and Cain arched a brow then handed the cigarillo back to the magician.  
  
“Such is the way of things, Inamorato,” Crusnik drawled within the wispy exhale and sat up to hook a section of Isaak’s hair. “One can hope another will realise the greatness within them, but often they can sorely disappoint you,” he remarked and let the thick strand glide through his fingertips. “Even your shade can fail to fulfil your expectations of him.” A faraway look skimmed over Cain’s face and Isaak tapped his ash in a glass bowl beside the chaise, knowing better than to mention the name Cain rarely said.  
  
Isaak brought the cigarillo to his lips then paused as he felt the energy of the mansion ripple. His eyes flashed for a split second then narrowed in amusement and he pressed the heater into the bowl. “Mein Herr, I beg leave to take care of an urgent matter,” he intoned and Cain moved his leg to free the mage with a lazy smile.   
  
“Our dear little lad get tangled in candy floss? Or is this yet another attempt to correct his loose behaviour?” Isaak freed a breathy snicker and shook his head as he got to his feet then straightened his tie.  
  
“Not exactly, Mein Herr.”  
  
“Please don’t make a mess, Isaak Fernand von Kämpfer,” he drawled then waved him toward the door and Isaak bowed his chin with respect.  
  
“Noted,”  
  
  
Helga lowered her arms in frustration, letting an exasperated sigh leave her then raised her arms again and spoke the Constraint. “I Do conjure thee, O thou Spirit Belial., by all the most glorious and efficacious names of the most great and incomprehensible lord God of Hosts, that thou comest quickly and without delay from all parts and places of the earth and world wherever thou mayest be, to make rational answers unto my demands, and that visibly and affably, speaking with a voice intelligible unto mine understanding as aforesaid. I conjure and constrain thee, O thou Spirit Belial, by all the names aforesaid.” Helga wobbled on her heels as another energy wave passed through the room, though she maintained her balance and looked with wide eyes as a sphere of azure light opened mid-air. The witch schooled her expression and waited for what she’d been taught was a Prince of Hell to manifest from the portal.   
  
First a booted leg stepped from the milky light, followed by the spine of a wing and finally the entity made his presence known. Helga gaped in awe at the being that stood on the perimetre of the circle. Mercurial eyes met her own from a handsome face and the daemon folded his raven wings behind him. Hair like pitch was bound halfway down the length and laid over his shoulder. Helga avoided the desperate want to curtsy before the daemon, opting for a simple tilt of her chin. And when the creature spoke, she could feel the timbre of his voice.  
  
“Why hast thou summoned me?” he asked and Helga only faltered a moment before she confidently voiced her reply.  
  
“BEHOLD thy confusion if thou refusest to be obedient! Behold the Pentacle of Solomon which I have laid here before thy presence! Behold the person of the exorcist, she who is armed and without fear. She who hath invoked thee most cogently. Make rational answer unto my demands, and prepare to be obedient unto thy master!” she commanded as the portal dissolved behind the daemon.   
  
Outside of the protective circle the being paced, his hands folded behind him as he assessed the woman. The air shifted around him, smelling of damp wood and his silver eyes bore down on her. “Woman. Wouldst thou observe thy bosom and tell me what thou has erroneously writ upon your heart,” he murmured and his wings twitched when the guiding feathers skimmed along the altar. Helga’s eyes followed the creature in his circuit and watched him finger the open page of Isaak’s tome.  
  
“You speak of my command, then?” she surmised and set her shoulders. “Erroneous? Not in the slightest, Prince.” Helga refuted and let a hand drop to the wand tucked beneath her belt. “If you speak of what is in my heart, then surely you know it.” The being chuckled ominously and turned to face her, the silver-wrought sigil in his hand. As he approached the outer perimetre of the circle, he raised that hand and the coin danced over each digit in a wave. It returned to the start then capered once more with the simple trick.   
  
“I do and more, Lady,” he cordially remarked, stilling the coin. “You seek to destroy the one you once called Master.” Shadowed eyes narrowed deviously, a warm smile breaching his black lips. “I can quite understand _that_.” The entity put a hand to his own heart and bowed his head. “I pledge ruin. But come,” he beckoned and held out that hand to Helga. “That you and I shall witness the wish of your heart.”   
  
Helga looked from his outstretched hand to his comely countenance and raised a small simper of her own. A fallen angel, second only to Lucifer Himself, was going to make her dream a reality and when she was done with the daemon, God would be hers! The witch’s gaze attended the coin the being tossed into the air and caught on the tip of his finger. He let it roll over the digit to be captured between it and his thumb. “Lady, speak not my name but come.” The coin was then flipped from his fingers and landed on the altar.   
  
When he saw that she hesitated, he paced the circle as before. “He tests you, does he not? He demeans you and your abilities,” he suggested as he rounded behind her with a sharp smile. “Does not such a charlatan deserve to die; for his slights are legion.” Helga’s brow knotted and she affirmed all that was put to her.  
  
“He’s in my way,” she insisted and the daemon nodded.  
  
“Then pay me tribute and all shall be as you desire, _Master_ ,” he told her then took up the chalice that sat to the left of Isaak’s book and tipped it toward her with a pointed look. Helga raised her left bare wrist and a thin stream of blood was willed from her flesh to the cup. The laceration healed immediately and the creature brought the chalice to his nose, taking in the heady scent of the fluid.   
  
The cup was tipped and he drank the contents. Satisfied, the daemon placed the chalice onto the altar and again held out his hand to Helga. “A contract has been struck. Come,” he purred and Helga slipped her hand into his cool palm, her feet willingly crossing the protective umbra.  
  
The daemon drew her close, curling her hand over his and placed a kiss on her knuckles. “And now Lady, let us converse in whispers and conspire,” he murmured, while his left hand drew a sword from behind his back, its silver edge shining unseen in the candlelight. A loud crash sounded as the sword fell from the creature’s hand and he howled when a broad triangle burned into the floor at his feet. The shape expanded to bind him and his head snapped to the side, a ferocious glare fixed on the black-clad figure at the door.   
  
Isaak’s hair fell behind him and he pushed Helga back into the circle then faced the incensed daemon, who spoke before he could. “You presume to bind me, Magus?! Many may call you master, but I–“ Issak cut him off.   
  
“Be still, Andras!” he growled and Helga got up off the floor, brushing chalk from the fabric of her skirt with a sneer.  
  
“What?!” she blasted and tore the parchment from her chest, it crumpling in her tight fist. “I did not summon…” Her words faded as she watched Isaak further bind the creature that, in his rage, mutated to a terrible form. The mage uttered words of power, flowing from his lips in even Latin that reopened the sphere of light the entity had used to manifest, forcing the daemon to depart.   
  
Once again, the energy fluctuated in the room then went neutral with an afterburn of sulfurous air and Helga stepped out of the circle to catch her breath, hands on the altar as she bowed her head. She stared at the silver coin and the careful engravings she’d wrought with her own hand. The witch straightened and pivoted on a heel to look at Isaak. “He wasn’t the one I was trying to summon,” she remarked and a loud smack echoed in the room as the raven slapped her.  
  
“Clearly you didn’t read much, Helga,” he blurted and his gaze dropped to the altar. Isaak picked up the chalice and looked into it then back up at the witch. “And you gave him your blood! Are you mad, woman?!” The chalice harshly met the table top. “You don’t even know who you drew in and didn’t have a binding seal in case your pet monstrosity got out of hand. I don’t know whether to laugh or send you with him,” Isaak snapped then took a breath and closed his book. With a few words, the tome vanished and he turned to his former student, a smile cresting his lips that would have been deemed sweet, if not for his fangs. “I’m disposed to opt for the latter.”  
  
Helga moved to the other side of the altar and her hands again met the velvet-covered surface. “It’s all your damned fault anyway! You just can’t leave well enough alone, can you?!” she yelled and while she continued, he lit up. Cigarillo bobbing between his lips, Isaak’s hands met the opposite side.   
  
“ ‘The worst deluded are the self-deluded’ – Christian Bovee,” he cited and pulled the stick from his lips, exhaling a ribbon of smoke. Helga frowned deeper.  
  
“Shut the fuck up, Isaak! I’m so sick of the sight of you– you and your tiresome whore!” she growled and the mage flicked the ash from his smoke in her bowl of rosewater. Isaak snickered and caught sight of the silver coin. Holding the cigarillo between the index and middle fingers of his right hand, he flipped the disc over to view the sigil she’d etched into the face. It was good quality silver and the work was detailed but he smirked, his gaze lifting as he tossed the coin back onto the table.  
  
“So you intended to summon Belial,” he stated then crouched to retrieve the balled-up piece of parchment. Isaak smoothed it on the surface of the altar and a snicker vibrated on his throat when he discovered her mistake. “But your summon sigil drew Andras,” he taught and took a step toward her. “That’s one thing I could never impress upon you, Madam…attention to detail,” he added and smartly poked the witch in the middle of her forehead, which Helga countered by smacking away his retreating hand.   
  
“Is that a fact?!” she snapped. Her lip quirked and in a fluid movement, Helga drew the wand out from under her belt, brandishing it before the mage. The blue chrystal at the tip of the short staff let off a strange light and Isaak tipped his chin up to peer down his nose at the woman, a smirk widening to reveal the tips of his fangs.   
  
  
The outstretched staff lost its lustre and tiny diamonds of ice began to dot Helga’s hand then crept along her thin wrist, encasing the bracelet she’d bragged about. She tried to lower the limb but to no avail, the ice now vining up her arm. “You dare raise _Winter Maiden_ against me? Her creator?”   
  
“Isaak,” she gasped, her eyes wide. He took another draw off his cigarillo, his hip leaning against the altar and Isaak quickly licked forefinger and thumb then extinguished the candles.  
  
“Do you have something to say, my dear Eishexe?” he politely asked and abandoned his smoke to the rosewater. Helga’s chest heaved with her breaths and she glared at Isaak.   
  
“I’m not the only one who wants to see you dead! The Orden is rife with people who would love to witness your fall from the right hand of God, Panzermagier,” she bit back. “You silence one and another will take his place.” Isaak reclaimed the engraved coin and closed his fist around it then opened his empty hand, a grin ghosting across his face.  
  
“Ah. You speak of your impotent accomplice, ja?” he purred and Helga cried out as the frozen vine pierced the underside of her arm, the chill now coursing through her shoulder joint. It had found the sensitive network of nerves and frost formed on her outer garments as the ice travelled downward. Isaak watched the frost thicken around her corset and over her hips before his eyes rolled upward. “Never fear, he will be dealt with,” he shared and arched a brow, causing the ice vine to bifurcate beneath her bluing skin.  
  
“ _Meister Magus_! Isaak, please!” she cried and he moved closer to her, drawing bare fingertips over her chilled cheek.  
  
“Nothing spoils a confession like repentance,” he uttered lowly and took up a section of Helga’s hair. As he caressed it, the thick tail broke off in his hand and he casually tipped his wrist to let the frozen tress fall to the ground. From it, another ice tendril snaked across the toes of Helga’s heels to encircle her ankles in their bitter embrase. Isaak’s lips hovered near Helga’s ear and he ogled the delicate icicles that hung from the cold metal. He gently flicked his finger to break the small spikes with a whispered laugh. “Foolish little girl.” Isaak stole a quick peck to the hoarfrost that bloomed on the flesh of her neck and walked out of Helga’s private rooms as the lustre of lavender eyes waned behind an icy veil.  
  
  
Balthasar sat on the sofa in his office, chin supported by his curled hand and his eyes unfocused. His pinky idly glided back and forth along his lower lip, his crossed leg rolling its ankle. He glanced at the phone on the table next to him, willing it to ring. An automated maid laid the man’s meagre supper out on the coffeetable then silently excused herself. The halfling’s eyes shifted to the small spread and lifted a slice of french bread from one of the plates. He leisurely chewed the bite, brushed a few crumbs from his lap and an ember in the freshly stoked fireplace popped in the quiet of the room. Balthasar sat up at the low table and unfolded a napkin across his lap. A few bites into his supper the phone rang and, startled, he nearly dropped his spoon. The utensil clanked against the rim of his bowl and he dabbed at his lips then lifted the receiver.   
  
“Helga?”   
  
A soft snicker was relayed into the earpiece and the muted sound of a lighter being struck followed, coupled with a hushed inhale. “Balthasar. Surely you know me well enough by now to recognise my voice. I’m offended,” Isaak teased and the brunet’s shoulders fell away from his head as he relaxed.   
  
“Yes, of course,” he replied with a sheepish laugh and finished his mouthfull. “What can I do for you?” Another piece of bread dredged through the bowl of stew and the tactician chewed as unobtrusively as he could manage. On the other end of the line, Isaak rolled the glowing tip of his cigarillo along the ashtray then flicked the excess from the stick. He leaned back in his chair and watched Dietrich mill about his office, thin arms hugging his upper body as he worried the handmade rug with his pacing.   
  
“I’m going out of the country on business and…” Isaak paused to observe the teen touching the petals of one of two dozen roses that sat in a chrystal vase on one of the magician’s endtables. Grey eyes attended that digit as it carefully skimmed the sharp thorns of the flower stem. “Have I interrupted something, my friend?” Balthasar wiped his mouth and set down the napkin, sitting a little straighter than before.  
  
“Nein, Herr,” he answered. “Not at all. Just finishing supper.” Isaak took another draw from his cigarillo and again looked up to see Dietrich sucking on the tip of his finger. He caught the faint scent of the boy’s blood on the air but averted his gaze to the smouldering end of his smoke. “I need you to keep an eye on things here while I’m gone, if you please.” Balthasar nodded to the empty room and slouched to stir his spoon through the stew. When Isaak disconnected, the brunet lifted the laden bowl of the utensil. He considered it for a moment then let it slip beneath the deep brown liquid, his appetite vanished.  
  
Helga hadn’t called him like she’d promised before pressing a quick peck on his pale forehead. It wasn’t unlike her to conveniently forget to do what she said she would, but Balthasar couldn’t help wondering why she had chosen now of all times to dismiss him. He dialed her office number then her private residence and the ones that answered told him the Lady hadn’t been in. The tactician hung up, his fingers lingering on the receiver before sliding off as he rose from his seat to meet Isaak.  
  
  
Dietrich’s ears had perked while Isaak was on the phone and when the mage hung up, the finger lowered from Dietrich’s mouth and he approached the raven. “Where are you going?” he asked and rested his backside against the arm of the sofa. Isaak elegantly crossed his legs, enjoying his scented tobacco. He formed a smoke ring and let it float from his lips then smiled at his protégé.   
  
“I haven’t decided yet,” Isaak replied and Dietrich crossed his arms, the pout he was famous for threatening his own sensual lips.  
  
“Why can’t I watch your shit, Isaak?” The magician pressed out the stick and waved a tendril of smoke away.  
  
“Language, little one,” Isaak admonished and opened one of the desk drawers. He laid a fresh tin of cigarillos onto the surface of the furniture and opened another drawer, retrieving a set of keys. Each one was secured to a silvertone ring which was threaded onto a larger circle. Dietrich let himself slide backwards over the sofa arm to lay down on the leather cushions and he swung his hanging legs as he grinned at the raven.  
  
“Sorry,” Dietrich murmured, not meaning a word of it, and he folded arms behind his head. “Don’t you trust me?” he purred and Isaak snorted as he laid the keyring next to his cigarillos.  
  
“Not in the slightest, Geliebte,” he stated matter-of-factly with a germ of a smile then stood and walked out from behind his desk to the now-standing young man. Bare fingers lifted Dietrich’s chin to meet his eyes. “You’re coming with me,” Isaak related and granted a patronising pat to his smooth cheek. Dietrich touched the centre of Isaak’s chest and nudged him with a candied simper.  
  
“Well, where are _we_ going, then?” he asked and Isaak captured his hand, his lips parting.   
  
“As I said, I haven’t decided.” He moved Dietrich’s hand away and walked past him to the drinks cabinet to pour a brandy. The mage then took a seat on the sofa and patted the cushion next to him in invitation. “I had considered a jaunt to Doltzer in Frankfurt,” Isaak related and cast a cursory glance down the redhead’s seated frame. “You need a new suit of clothes, boy.” Dietrich sighed and unwrapped a piece of dark chocolat he’d acquired from the dish on Isaak’s coffeetable.   
  
“I don’t want one. It’s bad enough I have to wear that stupid uniform,” he complained, slouching into the corner of the sofa. The tidy square met his tongue and Dietrich folded the goldtone foil into an even triangle. He raised a brow, along with the corner of his mouth. “Besides, I remember what happened to the last suit of clothes…Herr,” he droned and tossed the man a wink. Isaak snorted into his snifter, took a sip of the fine vintage then lowered the glass to his crossed thigh.  
  
“Perhaps you shouldn’t have played your enchanting games that night, ja?” he retorted and rested his arm along the back of the furniture. “Nevertheless, a gentleman cannot attend opening night of _Götterdämmerung_ in…well, _this_ sort of thing,” Isaak taught with a gesture toward the teen’s attire. Before Dietrich could retaliate, Isaak added: “On second thought, something formal would be preferable.” Dietrich groaned and crumpled the foil wrapper into a ball and threw it at his mentor.  
  
“I hate opera, Isaak,” he told him and leaned over to pull another candy from the dish. “Five-hundred hours of shit I don’t understand that gives me a headache,” Dietrich complained. A quiet knock sounded at the door and he cocked his head but Isaak cleared his throat.  
  
“Come,” he called out and Balthasar slipped into the office, shutting the door behind him with a quick bow of his head. Dietrich’s eyes shifted between both men as Isaak waved the brunet into a comfortable chair. “Please sit,” he directed and waited until Balthasar did so before standing to retrieve the keyring. Isaak returned to the sofa and with a pointed glance, Dietrich silently sat up properly and folded his hands, chewing his chocolat square.  
  
“Guten abend, Herr von Neumann,” he drawled and Balthasar nodded in his direction but kept his focus on Isaak. The mage produced his keyring and handed it to the tactician via a single finger.  
  
“I shall only be gone a short time, but you have let to utilise this office as you wish. The keys open all the doors and there’s a spare there, should you need to use the car for any reason,” he offered and Balthasar took the keyring, relaying his understanding. Isaak’s tongue glided beneath his upper lip as the other man inspected the keys. “The little filigree one is the key to the room at the end of this wing– to the right of the staircase– which you may not enter.” Brown eyes momentarily widened and Balthasar let the little key drop, its ring sounding along the larger circle. Isaak took another sip from his snifter. “Anywhere and anything else is open to you, save that room.”   
  
“I understand, yes,” Balthasar agreed and pocketed the keys as Isaak’s attention shifted to Dietrich.  
  
“Grab your toothbrush and whatever, Dietrich. We have a flight to catch,” he informed him and the teen snickered but moved to do as he was bade. Isaak put a hand to Balthasar’s shoulder as he escorted him to the door. “I expect you back at nine,” the mage directed with a warm smile, which the other man returned before heading out into the corridor.  
  
  
Balthasar spent little time in Isaak’s wing, but the promise of lightly perusing the various titles that lined the magician’s office was far too tempting. Earlier in the week, Helga’s maid had surmised the Lady was on holiday, citing several instances where the witch would leave without informing the staff. When the brunet called at Helga’s private residence, he was told she hadn’t left any contact. It was mildly troublesome to Balthasar, however he knew his cohort well enough that such frivolity wasn’t beyond her.   
  
A finger travelled along several tomes whose titles had been worn by time. Balthasar had little use for magic, but perhaps– he thought– one of the many books would give him a bit more insight into his own innate talent. It was a decent place to start. As the days in Isaak’s absence drew on, Balthasar became increasingly mindful of the room the mage had forbidden him to enter, though he pondered why Isaak would bother mentioning it. Twelve keys hung on the ring he’d been entrusted and the smaller one that opened that door could have been easily overlooked.   
  
After a short meeting with his brothers, Balthasar retired to Isaak’s office and availed himself of a glass of wine then sat to continue reading one of the books he’d selected. The tome didn’t relay as much as was hoped of his gift, though he made a quiet noise of approval when the lines revealed he could do so much more than generate a petrificant from the palms of his hands. Shadows from the fireplace danced merrily along the area rug and the tactician initially welcomed the quiet, enabling him to absorb the arcane knowledge. Minutes turned into hours and Balthasar found himself reading the same passage over and over again, his mind on what Isaak could possibly have hidden behind that unassuming door at the end of the corridor.  
  
He never liked to think of himself as one easily given to preoccupation, but the spectre of curiosity had haunted him from the time he’d risen that evening. There was only one way to banish the needling at the back of his brain and with a resigned sigh, Balthasar laid the book down then grabbed the keys from Isaak’s table, muttering a subvocal curse.  
  
The attending gloom of the corridor resembled beckoning hands and seemed to draw Balthasar closer to the cherry-wood door, its brass lock inviting him to insert the little key into it. It was colder in the east wing and the brunet felt a shiver caper up his spine. He dismissed the chill and brought out the keyring from his pocket, its tenants softly sounding against each other. Balthasar quickly licked the seam of his lip and let his gaze drop to search for the filigree key. “Dammit,” he swore and needlessly scanned the frame before turning the key in its lock.   
  
The door creaked ominously on its hinges and Balthasar took a moment to muse on how cliché the situation was. The air of the room had a chemical smell and he exhaled with a huff then stepped into the dark room, his boots softly crunching with each step. He blindly felt the inside walls for a switch and when his search came up short, the brunet squinted his eyes.   
  
From the meagre light of the corridor, Balthasar could see what appeared to be several pieces of furniture stationed about the room, their dust covers dragging the floor like shrouds. Further into the room, Balthasar found a wall switch and activated it, lighting a small lamp in the far corner, the radius of its dim light minimal at best. He backed up from the lamp to look at the wall in front of him, rectangles suggestive of paintings checkerboarding what he could see.   
  
An additional step backward brought Balthasar against a cool object and he turned around, hoping to catch whatever it was he’d backed into, should it decide to topple. Hands touched smooth glass that held muted colours of blue, peach and black within its many facets. “Chrystal?” he fancied and ran the palm of his hand over the surface then walked over to the lamp, hoping to cast its light onto the object.  
  
Yellowed light travelled up the chrystal as Balthasar raised the lamp. Various jewels lay embedded in the object but the tactician frowned when he caught sight of a metal chevron. The light coursed higher and revealed a swatch of red, then a wider vein of black that was cut with a sharp slice of pale blue. Balthasar’s lips twitched then parted for a gasp as the lamp shone on the frozen face of Eishexe.  
  
The lamp fell to the floor, its shade crinkling and light from its naked bulb glinted on hundreds of tiny white beads that peppered the wood. Balthasar gulped at the air, his eyes wide and unfocused. Helga stared back at him beneath the veneer of ensorcelled ice and Balthasar lilted to the right, knocking into an iron stand. It pitched on two legs then tipped over, toppling the frozen woman to the floor. Her encased body hit with loud thud and broke into several large pieces. A disquieted cry issued from the man’s open mouth as one of Helga’s hands rolled to his feet. Slowly, the limb shed its magic– as did the rest of her broken form– and Balthasar stared in horror as the ice evapourated. Sightless lavender eyes bore into him from a few feet away and the one remaining tail of long blue hair curled around the partially shattered curve of a hip.  
  
Balthasar’s mouth opened and closed without sound as his brain attempted to grasp what his eyes showed him. “What a mess you’ve made, my friend,” drawled a voice behind him and the brunet loosed a strangled gasp as he whirled around to meet the backlit form of Panzermagier. “ ‘Treachery, though at first very cautious, in the end betrays itself’ – Titus Livy,” Isaak cited with a dark turn of the corner of his mouth and Balthasar stood stock still, his body trying to cope with the shock that stupefied him. Isaak cocked his head with a patronising grin. “What ever’s the matter, Basilisk? Cat got your tongue?” he mocked and stole a quick glance at the erstwhile Helga. He tsked and folded his hands behind his back. “Fancy _you_ being paralysed.”   
  
Balthasar finally found his voice and spoke carefully, taking a half step away from Isaak. “I…Helga, she was always so ambitious,” he remarked evenly and Isaak pursed his lips then caressed the tip of a fang with his tongue.   
  
“I have to agree. And it appears her temerity was contagious, ja?” the mage reasoned, his smooth smile causing the tactician’s nerves to dance unpleasantly.   
  
“Isaak,” Balthasar began, avoiding looking down at his fallen comrade, favouring instead a nondescript point behind the raven. “She was only concerned with the best interests of the Orden,” he explained in a shaky voice and Isaak cocked a brow.  
  
“Is that so? And I take it you shared her misgivings as to the pecking order,” he surmised and Balthasar could feel the hair at the nape of his neck stand on end with the disquieting glance Isaak afforded him. The air of the room felt stifling and he took in a deep breath through his nose as the prickling sensation of sweat dotted his forehead and spine.   
  
The brunet remained silent, his voice again departing for parts unknown and Isaak smirked. “Your silence speaks volumes,” he murmured and took a step closer to the other male, drawing his cigarillo case from his trouser pocket. Isaak tapped the end of a black stick against the metal then slid it between his lips and lit it. The smoke curled from his mouth and he considered the halfling. “I respected you, Basilisk– something I do not freely extend,” he told him and Balthasar drew in a long breath, his brow creasing in what amounted to a last-ditch effort.  
  
“Do you honestly think Helga and I are the only ones that have misgivings, Panzermagier?” he challenged and stepped a pace to his right. “I should keep a close eye on that boy who resides in your back pocket, if I were you.” Brown eyes flashed in the dim light and Isaak snorted within his exhale, a disconcerting smile rising.  
  
“You’re not me, _lampijerović_ ” he remarked casually and with the flick of his wrist, raised the Shield of Asmodeus as generated acid sprayed from the palm of Balthasar’s hand. The venom fell to the floor, soaking the white microspheres of sodium hydroxide that lay underfoot and Isaak clicked his tongue as he stepped into a clear section of floor. Before him, an exothermic reaction took place, raising the temperature of the room. Isaak dropped his shield and watched the man fall to his knees, the heat increasing exponentially around his body.   
  
The raven crushed the glowing tip of his cigarillo between thumb and forefinger then tossed the stick to the floor with a sharp grin. Balthasar’s groans raised in volume and his exposed flesh reddened. “Goodbye, von Neumann,” Isaak said and took a few steps backward then turned his back to the writhing form. The mage slid into the shadows of the corridor as the venom’s flashpoint was breached and the sound of the resultant explosion rocked the quiet night.  
  


~~~~***~~~~

  
  
“I understand that you lost the east wing of your home, Isaak,” Cain remarked as he lounged on his chaise, awaiting the mage’s attention. Isaak approached, forwarding a small tray that contained a delicate flute of champagne. Crusnik lifted the glass and crossed his silk-clad legs, blue eyes following the dark figure back to the sideboard.   
  
Isaak poured himself a glass and faced Cain with a quiet grin. “That is correct, yes,” he replied and lifted the flute to momentarily watch the small bubbles caper along the inside of the glass. “Unfortunate but anticipated.” Cain softly shook his head and took a sip of the wine. He balanced the glass on his thigh then gestured toward the foot of the chaise in invitation. Isaak took a seat and crossed his own legs with a nod of thanks before a snicker escaped Crusnik’s blush lips.  
  
“Didn’t I ask you to not make a mess, Mein Haustier?” he drawled, tracing the rim of his glass with the tip of a finger. Isaak’s eyes lifted to the set that met him and his brow twitched in the parody of a shrug.  
  
“It was unavoidable, Highness. And a sufficient means to an end, I daresay,” he related then took a sip of the expensive wine. Isaak tipped his chin upward. “Don’t worry, I won’t expense it out,” he assured and Cain’s white teeth peeked from behind his smile, preceding a breathy laugh.  
  
“That is the least of my worries.” The blonde slid a hand behind his head and gently swirled the champagne in his glass, causing the bubbles to travel along the inner curvature. “I only ask you to remember that what is done cannot be undone,” he counselled and Isaak nodded then moved closer to impart a kiss to Cain’s forehead, muttering words of accord. Cain brushed aside a thick strand of raven hair and traced the sharp angle of Isaak’s jaw. “ ‘Thus through the soft blandishment of a kiss he implanted the execrable dart of betrayal.’, “ he quoted and the mage spoke against Cain’s skin.  
  
“Betrayal?” Isaak repeated and sat back to set his glass onto the floor. “Never,” he continued. “ ‘So spake the seraph Abdiel, faithful found, Among the faithless faithful only he.’– Paradise Lost.” Cain chuckled into his glass and sipped at the champagne then glanced at the gilded door of his chambres and cocked an amused brow. Eyes rolled over to Isaak and Crusnik lowered the flute, murmuring:  
  
“ ‘One morn, a Peri at the gate Of Eden stood disconsolate,’” he related and Isaak turned his gaze to the portal with a closed grin then cleared his throat.   
  
“Do come in, Dietrich,” he called, sharing a knowing look with the blonde. Dietrich entered the room, waiting until he was beckoned closer then affected a cursory bow of his head in Cain’s direction. Isaak licked his lips of the bittersweet taste imparted by the champagne. “Congratulations, mein Schatz. You’ve been promoted forthwith.”


End file.
